


REM

by decemberille



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Illnesses, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Instability, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, very brief breathplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decemberille/pseuds/decemberille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a deadly, whip-sharp, whole, and healthy man that falls in love with Arthur all those years ago. After wasting several of them, Arthur realizes that he'd been nursing an impossible grief instead of returning that love, fully and sincerely. But what's left to love is now someone who's slowly withering, with no deliverance in sight. A story in which Arthur finds out that the road to redemption is a different sort of heartbreak than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	REM

**Author's Note:**

> A second fill for this prompt at the kink meme: http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=37483013
> 
> I don't expect this to be spectacularly long, but it's an idea that's been planned already, so it's just a matter of writing it down. Also, this is unbeta'd and if anyone would like to beta future chapters, I'd be ever so grateful. ^.^

Eames once told Arthur that every man has a blind spot.

“Including you, Mr. Eames?” Arthur had said, a grin on his face and eyes lit up in mirth. “The infamous forger, master of disguise, gentleman thief and human lie detector? Or are you going to tell me you’re the exception to the rule?”

Eames had lowered his binoculars to turn his attention away from the mark they’d been tailing to Arthur in the passenger seat to fix him with a chiding, but amused look.

“Keep that up and you could make quite the living titling pulpy adventure novels. But no, I would never presume to be above such basic human frailties, no matter how good I think or maybe actually am at my job.” He’d faced the window once again, binoculars in place and trained on their subject.

“So what’s _your_ blind spot, then?”

“How the bloody hell would I know? That’s why it’s called a _blind_ spot. Now be a love and hand me the tape recorder I keep in the glove box.”

They’d dropped the topic after that, but it was that exact conversation that inadvertently popped into his head a year later while he was balls-deep in a writhing, moaning, and very much married Mal. During such encounters, Dom would be at a conference in some foreign city or another while months-old Phillipa was babysat by the friendly next-door neighbor. One could infer that Arthur had been thinking of how Dom was the one not seeing what was right in front of him; persuasive, charming, observant Dom who had failed to notice the fading bruises on milky-white thighs that belonged to fingers much thinner than his, the lack of complaint when he was gone for long periods of time, and the abnormally close relationship between Mal and her childhood friend that she’d known for so long. 

But as Arthur fucked out small breathy noises out of her, it wasn’t Mal’s husband he was thinking about, but the man waiting for Arthur to come home. Any post-coital glow that was still possible in such circumstances was impossible after an overwhelming wave of guilt washed over him the second after coming inside of Mal with a shuddering groan. While Arthur caught his breath on top of her, he thought of how he’d still be bent over his work desk, forging a new passport, meticulous in his handiwork and perfect in his execution. The happiness that would shine in those eyes when Arthur walked through the door, the earnestness in his voice when he asked him how that job in Calcutta had gone. All the “welcome home” pleasantries that never failed to appear every time he returned. A year after he’d asked Eames, Arthur got his answer. _He_ was the blind spot, and Eames had no idea that he’d handed his heart over to the worst person possible. See, no matter how many times he’d told Eames so, Arthur didn’t actually love him. Not until it was too late, anyway.

&

Arthur knows exactly at which hotel Eames is staying. As well as the room number, the length of his stay, the time of his next flight for Hong Kong, the fact that his room contains one king bed and that he ordered a delicious lobster dinner from room service 5 minutes ago. So he figures that if he times it just right, he could actually be in Eames’ room before the food gets there and luck out with a decadent piece of lobster tail if Eames was inclined to feel generous. However, despite his thorough research regarding his lodging and travel plans, Arthur finds it difficult to leave his own room, yet. He fidgets it in the mirror first, second-guessing his choice of outfit. The deep chocolate-brown Balenciaga three-piece suit he’s wearing had always been a favorite of Eames’ and the torrent of lascivious suggestions provoked by the suit had served to boost his ego when wearing it. But would it be too obvious? Maybe Eames would see right through him and slam the door in his face the second he saw who was knocking on his door. What if he didn’t forgive Arthur? Would he make him beg, make him wait, make him--

Arthur stops himself abruptly and lets out a slow, shuddering exhale before facing his reflection in the mirror once more. In all honesty, it didn’t matter what he had on. And it wasn’t necessarily wise to try to soften Eames up with subtle mind tricks, subliminal messaging, or flowery speech. Like the saying goes, “you don’t bullshit a bullshitter”, and if there was ever a time to take that thought into account, it was now. With one last adjustment to his cufflinks, Arthur makes his way out of the hotel room. When it comes to Eames, the best weapon against him is bluntness. Starting out fast, determined, and aggressive should catch his attention, and was one of the few things that could catch him off-guard; he’d be forced to listen to the truth (or Arthur’s version of it) before kicking him out, at least. 

By the time he gets out of the taxi and pays the driver, that uneasy queasiness settles into his stomach once more. The high he felt at LAX post-inception had lingered for a bit, but in that moment standing in front of the hotel, Arthur feels it all dissipate in a sudden rush. Terrible scenario after terrible scenario plague him as he enters the lobby, gets in the elevator, and goes up the floors to Eames’ room. Arthur hangs on to a small shred of hope that Eames is still interested, even taking his chilly demeanor during the job into account, because if not, well... Arthur doesn’t think about that. He sees the room at the end of the hallway, walks to it as calmly as he can, braces himself for a few seconds, and ignores the hyperactive thumps of his heart, before he knocks. Three sharp raps against the door. A beat.

The door swings open to reveal Eames, dressed still in his clothes from the airport and Arthur can catch a flash of shock before it disappears and Eames can school his features into those of disinterest.

“You’re not room service.” Arthur lets out a single tension-breaking chuckle.

“No, it would seem I’m not. Can I come in?” Eames wordlessly steps to the side and allows him entry.

“Has there been some sort of issue? Regarding our payment.”

“What?” Arthur turns to look back at Eames. He has his hands in his pockets and a thinly veiled look of distrust on his face.

“Is that why you’re here? To tell me of a problem?”

“No, I’m here because I wanted to see you. I think there’s still things we need to talk about—”

“ _We_ need to talk about?”

“Okay fine,” Arthur quickly assured, hands lifted in mock surrender, “Some things that _I_ need to talk about. With you.”

A series of loud knocks startles Arthur out of what he’s going to say, and he remembers that, oh yeah, Eames was waiting on dinner. He takes the liberty of sitting on the edge of the bed as Eames exchanges pleasantries with the hotel employee and wheels the food in. When the other man is gone and Eames starts going about setting up his food how he wants it on the table facing the window, he looks up at Arthur and flippantly gestures towards him in a manner telling him to continue.

He starts out slowly, saying, “More than anything, Eames, I want us to be together. If you want to, I don’t know, start over, or pick up where we left off, you set the terms. But I’m here. For you.”

“When’s your next job?” Eames asks. Arthur looks at him, not knowing what that has to do with anything.

“I don’t have one lined up.”

Instead of eating, Eames holds a fork in his hand and studies it as if it were the most fascinating object to ever hold his attention. The silence goes on for a bit, the only sound in the room being the nervous beating of Arthur’s heart. Just as it’s about to turn uncomfortable, Eames speaks.

“Mal’s dead... and Cobb’s retired,” he mutters quietly almost as if to himself. He faces Arthur and says, a bit louder, “Did you ever truly grieve her? Mal, I mean. In those couple of years where you were following Cobb like a lovesick puppy and picking up after his messes, did you find time for that?”

There are no words to truly explain to Eames how Arthur did all of his grieving for Mal while she was still alive, how he clung on to his angst regarding her marriage, her use of him, and how she would never return the love he so ardently felt for her. How could he tell him of the terrible catharsis he’d experienced when Mal ended her own life, an event that was the final nail in the coffin of the feelings he’d once had? That it was her death that jolted Arthur back into reality, out of the delusional haze he’d been living in, and into the realization that it wasn’t Mal he’d loved, but the idea of her, someone so beautiful and dangerous being all his. Arthur knew he couldn’t say to Eames it wasn’t until she was gone that he realized the despicable thing he’d done and all of its implications. So yes, he’d done his mourning, just not in the way anyone expected.

“I’ve moved on,” Arthur responds with a note of finality. “Any emotional roller coaster I went through is behind me now.”

Eames turns back to his fork and narrows his eyes as if he’s mulling an idea over in his head. 

“Let’s team up. You’re a point man and I’m forger who’s not a half-bad extractor. I’m not ready to retire, not by a long shot. And we’ve just pulled off the impossible, so I say we take this industry by storm,” He looks at Arthur with a look he can only describe as smoldering, “What do you say?”

“Yes. I say yes.”

The flight to Hong Kong that Arthur already knows about turns out to be Eames’ next job. Over the dinner that Eames so graciously shares, he tells him the details: a film producer is desperate to get his hands on a _wuxia_ film director’s next project as sort of revenge for a slight committed several years previous. It doesn’t sound like the typical corporate espionage and Arthur can tell Eames is excited to use his talents on something less traditional. He also has a million and a half ideas, each one more ludicrous than the next, to infiltrate the mind of Eames simply calls “a creative type.” They finish dinner and Arthur leaves, promising Eames to catch up with him in Hong Kong as soon as he ties up some loose ends in LA. 

As Arthur leaves the hotel, however, and heads to his own, he can’t help but feel disappointed in the way that Eames so effectively wrested control of the conversation from his hands and veered it in a completely different direction. He feels off-kilter, wrong-footed, and Arthur can only hope that Eames’ desire to partner up is a solid step in rekindling their personal relationship. He decides right then to not bring it up again and instead let Eames go at his own pace. If Eames wants to put Arthur through a trial period, then so be it; he was more than willing to prove to the man he loved that this time, things were serious, and he wasn’t going to leave the way he did last time ever again.

&

Initially, it looked like the job was going to be a complete catastrophe, but in the end, they all pull it off. It turns out that the bizarre royal rescue scenario they were forced to act out was the plot of the movie itself, making for probably the single most unconventional and thrilling extraction Arthur had ever pulled off. After handing the information to their employer and receiving a million-dollar payday, their architect and chemist say their goodbyes and go to leave on their respective flights. Which leaves just the two of them to have a couple of celebratory drinks in Eames’ hotel room, where they toast to a job well done. 

It’s a single moment that does it. They’re on their third whisky when Eames suddenly grows quiet and looks at Arthur with such intensity, he feels himself blush under the other man’s gaze. Eames sets his tumbler down slowly on the bedside table and plucks Arthur’s from his fingers to do the same. He wraps a large hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and leans as if to kiss him but stops short when their lips are just millimeters away.

“I want to believe you,” Eames whispers, “that you really want this. I love you and I don’t want to feel cast aside ever again.”

Arthur swallows and fights the prickling in his eyes to answer, “Eames... give me a second chance. Please.”

When their mouths meet, it’s not harsh or demanding, but soft. Arthur melts against the sweet pressure of Eames’ plush lips against his to desperately seek out the absolving touch he’d been dreaming of so fervently for over two years. They fumble at each other’s clothes, desperate for skin on skin contact, trying to undress without stopping to kiss for more than a few seconds. When finally they’re both naked and Arthur’s on his back with Eames pressing delicious bruising kisses on every inch of skin he can, Arthur can’t help but sob out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Shh, darling, shh. Just let us do this. We need it.” So Arthur forgets his guilt and instead focuses on soaking up every caress, every ghosted breath on sensitive flesh. He spreads his legs as invitingly as he can and begs Eames to touch him, _oh yes right there, please_. Slippery fingers slide inside of him and don’t waste time in pressing mercilessly against his prostate, causing loud breathy moans to erupt from Arthur’s mouth, choking around Eames’ name and different variations of _fuck, you feel so good, please I need you inside me, don’t stop _. Eames prepares Arthur languorously, ignoring all pleas to go faster, harder.__

__“I’ll fuck you hard, love, I will. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll wonder how you could ever leave, how you did without me for so long. _Fuck_ , I want to destroy you, ruin you for anyone else, and make you mine. I know it’s selfish, but I want that, Arthur, I do.”_ _

__In between moans and sobs at the movements of Eames’ clever fingers moving in and out of his stretched and wet hole, he managed to gasp out, “Do it, ride me hard and fill me up, make me yours.”_ _

__Eames slicks up his cock quickly and Arthur only has a second to savor the feeling of his hot, sticky cockhead prodding at his hole before he slides in with a single vicious thrust that has Arthur silently scream and digging his nails _deep_ into Eames’ back, a feeble imitation of the way he penetrates him so thoroughly. A steady, insistent rhythm quickly gives way to Eames pounding Arthur into the mattress, leaving him with nothing to do but just take it and hold on as his tight hole struggles to endure the onslaught. Arthur’s throat is raw from moaning out Eames’ name and multiple desperate expletives, his nails leave deep and possibly bleeding scores on Eames’ back and biceps, and one of Eames’ hands reaches up to wrap tight around his throat as he goes almost impossibly faster. The head of his dick manages to jab _right_ against his prostate on every thrust and his hand tightens even more around Arthur’s throat, making his vision start to black out and his cock to spurt out the first drops of his orgasm. _ _

__As soon as Eames sees that Arthur’s begun to come, he lets go of Arthur’s throat completely and instead braces both of his hands against the headboard to fuck him right through his orgasm and spilling hot and wet, deep inside of Arthur’s ass with a groan. Eames collapses next to Arthur in a sweaty heap when he’s done and catches his breath for a handful of seconds. He extends an arm towards Arthur and pulls him snug against him, which he takes as an opportunity to place small kisses on Eames’ chest and throat, almost as a thank you for holding him close._ _

__They don’t talk in those precious post-coital moments, but instead doze off in each other’s arms, feeling safe in secure in their knowledge that maybe things would indeed turn out alright. That’s the night that Arthur counts as the start of their new beginning, and hope flares bright in his heart as he falls asleep to the sound of Eames’ light snoring._ _

__They wake up the next morning and paint the perfect picture of happiness and domesticity as they engage in another round of sex, clean themselves up, order up room service for breakfast, and book the next flight to London. Throughout all of this, Arthur allows himself the sort of delirious happiness that he didn’t know he would ever experience. Eames was finally his again, and the number of times he checked his totem to make sure he wasn’t dreaming would be almost comical if that fear wasn’t so present in Arthur’s mind in the first place._ _

__When the two of them finally arrive in London, jet-lagged but relived to finally be in a place they can call home, they take a shower together and manage to resist going at each other once again. But while Arthur manages to nap just fine for a few hours, Eames doesn’t get any rest, despite how exhausted he is. A problem that continues that night as well, when he finds himself in front of the television for several hours while Arthur tries, and fails, to get him to bed. They both disregard Eames’ insomnia as an anomaly as Arthur goes to bed alone. What they don’t know is that they’ve both just seen day one of Eames’ fatal struggle for sleep._ _


End file.
